I end up buying a few things to send down to Mom: a beautiful patterned scarf, a novel by her favorite author, and a set of bath products and perfumes from a local beauty shop she always loved. I also grab a few gifts for friends back in Philadelphia and something small for the secret Santa exchange at the hospice. I’ve got a couple things in mind for Dad already, although I’d like to nail down one or two more before Christmas.
I head to work, pleased with my shopping finds if still troubled by everything I overheard this morning. Catherine is on my patient load today, and she’s in great spirits when I make my first rounds. She’s quickly become one of my favorite patients I’ve ever worked with—she makes me think of the kind of person I want to be, the kind of woman I aspire to be like.
“I saw your daughter is taking you home for the day on Christmas,” I say, smiling. Catherine nods.
“She said it wouldn’t be a holiday without me. But truth be told, between you and me? I think she just wants to pick my brain for my famous mashed potato recipe before it goes with me,” Catherine says.
“A closely guarded secret?” I ask, guessing. Catherine laughs, and even though I’ve worked with so many elderly patients, I can’t help but be impressed by how calm, how casual she is about her own mortality. It’s not surprising, though—with all her stories, she gives off such an air of handling whatever life’s thrown her way with grace.
“Something like that. Truthfully, I never thought they were that good, but the kids have always loved them, and now my son-in-law tells me they’re my claim to fame,” Catherine says.
“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” I say, nodding.
“I’ll sneak you back some. If Gary leaves any for anyone else, that is,” Catherine says, laughing.
“Is Gary your son-in-law?” I ask. Catherine nods.
“He’s a middle school teacher. Lovely fellow, makes my daughter really happy, and he’s a good father,” Catherine says, smiling.
“That’s great,” I say, smiling back. Catherine shakes her head again and looks at me.
“Well, how about you? Is there anything wonderful in your life? Any man sweeping you off your feet?” Catherine asks. I flush, instantly thinking of Danny.
“No one special,” I say, although it doesn’t feel true.
“But someone you want to be special, right?” Catherine asks, laughing her raspy laugh.
“I’m . . . making up my mind about that,” I say, and that statement feels a little truer. I pull her medicine from my cart, Danny still on my mind.
“Decide quick, honey. Don’t let a good man get away. Life is always better when you’re not alone,” Catherine says.
“I’ve heard that,” I say, nodding. I think she might be right, although I don’t know what to do about it.
“Believe it, and hold on tight to things and people that make you happy,” Catherine says, studying me like she can read my thoughts somehow. Could I be happy like that, with Danny? I think I do feel happy when I’m with him. But then I think I’m not sure that’s actually enough. I’m not sure happiness lasts, not after everything my parents have been through, after everything I’ve seen my friends in the city go through for the sake of relationships. I want to think Catherine’s seen enough to know it’s worth it, but I’m not sure happiness is a gamble worth taking right now, all things considered.
“I’ll certainly try,” I say, smiling at Catherine again. “Ready for your medicine?”
“For my nap, you mean,” Catherine says, taking the medicine from my hand and poking a small blue painkiller with her finger. “This little one never lets me stay awake.”
“It tends to have that effect on people,” I say.
“Especially little old ladies who can’t stay awake a damn minute as it is,” Catherine says, throwing her pills back with a glass of water. “Tell me about your maybe-special man when I wake up, all right? It’ll make my day.”
“It’s a deal,” I say, taking the paper water cup back from Catherine and shaking her thin hand. I’m not sure what I’ll say, not sure how to talk about Danny at all. Maybe that’s why it makes me so nervous.
Maybe that’s why he does.
Chapter Twelve - Danny
The kitchen pantry is missing four loaves of bread and five blocks of cheese. Hank and I have fought in more recent conversations than not. The missing money is still gone. The Naval Academy Ball is almost here. The unscheduled inspection is even closer.
And somehow, all I can think about is Charlotte.
With everything happening, a flirtation, a woman I’ve slept with once on what should feel like an impulsive whim, ought to be the last thing on my mind. Instead, it feels like Charlotte is the first thing on my mind at all times. Maybe I’m a hypocrite. After all, I keep telling Hank we can’t take risks right now, don’t I? I keep telling him we don’t need to take needless risks or complicate things. And pursuing anything with Charlotte is nothing but a huge, needless risk and complication, to so much more than the Naval Ball and the restaurant’s troubles. I know it is. I know all the women I could be trying to start things with, Hank’s daughter should not be a viable option at all.
I could jeopardize the best friendship I have. I could jeopardize the entire future of the restaurant. I know that. I can’t help but worry that it’s old habits, wanting a woman I can’t have, not caring about the consequences. I don’t want to think it, but I can’t help but worry that they’re someone else’s habits. For years, when I was in middle school, my dad’s girlfriend had been a married woman. She was married to a police officer, who always knew something was happening and used to come search our little house at random, looking for any reason to haul Dad away for a night or two on. Most of the time, he found them, because Dad wasn’t much of a fan of paying for things or going through the right legal channels for services.
Dad kept seeing her anyway, having her over at the house all the time. She was as loud as he was, and she used to make me serve her dinner, telling me I had to learn how to treat a lady in order to grow upright. I remember how she’d sit on Dad’s lap and put her hand down his pants right there in front of me. Then, before I knew it, they’d be shouting at each other and throwing things, until they were all over each other again, sending me to my room and yelling at me to lock the door behind me so they could have sex in the living room before she went home to her husband.
Dad kept piling up speeding tickets and possession charges, but he kept seeing that woman anyway. They’d kept up their affair, even for the nights in jail it earned him until her police officer husband had taken a job with the state troopers and they’d moved away. I’d been relieved. But Dad had been angrier than ever, drinking heavier and not coming home for days at a time. (“Never trust a stupid bitch,” Dad had said when he was home like he was teaching me a lesson, “and trust me, kid, they’re all like that. All of them, only good for one fucking thing.”)
Charlotte is nothing like Dad’s old girlfriend, of course, but maybe my wanting her so much is the same. Maybe I’m making his mistakes after all. Maybe I’m still like him, despite all my efforts over the years to not be. Here I am, screwing up business and friendship for a woman he hardly knew, a relationship that’s centered around little more than sex, as it stands now. It certainly seems like something he would have done.
I feel like I know Charlotte better than people I’ve known for years though, feel like she’s making a huge impact on me just being here. When I was in my twenties, dating every available woman I saw and not caring to learn anything about them, that had been like Dad. I’ve come so far from that, worked so hard to be better than that. I’d like to think I am. I was raised to be a womanizer, to never actually fall for anyone, and I used to believe it was all I could aspire to, but I don’t think like that anymore.
But maybe I’m just looking for something I can control. I worry. I don’t know what’s happening at my own restaurant, but kissing Charlotte had felt like all those problems were miles away. Being with Charlott
e feels easier than it should, feels easier than dealing with the issues at the Dock’s End. I could just be looking for a distraction.
Charlotte already feels like much more than a distraction, though, feels like something a lot more lasting. Feels like a challenge, not something easy. I think it’s the opposite of being like my dad, like if I was with Charlotte if I deserved someone like her, could make her happy, then I’m actually the person I’ve been trying to be, the person Hank always, somehow, seen me as.
I’m not used to wanting someone feeling this complicated and I’m uneasy that it does now. I do very much want Charlotte, though. I can’t deny that. I can’t even really try. Maybe, more than anything else, it’s that. Maybe I don’t care about the potential consequences. Maybe I’m being reckless because I want Charlotte so much that it all feels worth it.
That might be the most alarming possibility of them all.
I stare at the numbers on my desk again, the missing money staring at me in red, bold, letters. And, in spite of everything, I think, fuck it.
I need Charlotte’s help on this. I want her help on this. Even if I don’t know exactly what else is going on, what’s going to happen with all this mess, I know that’s a fact, I need another opinion on all this, and I need it to be Charlotte’s.
So I text her and ask her come by later before I can talk myself out of it.
Chapter Thirteen - Charlotte
Catherine slips into unresponsiveness early on a Sunday morning.
She’s not on my assignment, but I keep checking on her all day. Everyone does. Catherine has touched so many people in her time here, and the whole air of the place feels different now, at the very real thought of actually losing her. Her daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter arrive midday to sit with her, and it’s like all of them, and the whole staff around here, are just holding their breath—waiting for Catherine’s last, or maybe holding out, like somehow the bargain will delay the inevitable just a little while longer in exchange.
Just yesterday she’d been herself, lively and joking, telling stories about running her flower shop in the 1980s. And then today, she’d slipped away, that rasp in her voice changed to a rattle in her breathing, the kind that every nurse in the building has heard in the hours and days before so many deaths. It makes sense in some ways that she wouldn’t linger, that she’d have been herself until the last few hours of her life. She’s such a strong person, it’s like she willed it to be this way, to hang on as long as she could and never slip away from herself. It’s still surreal, though, even with as many jokes as she makes all the time, to think of her being gone for real.
She passes away that night, right as the winter sun is setting over the water like the world is getting darker as she leaves it behind.
I know I shouldn’t be upset, shouldn’t really feel anything, honestly. I should be used to this, should be numb to it. And normally, I am—I’ve had to be over the years, or I wouldn’t have made it in this profession. But today? I feel it with everything in me. It hits me, square in the heart. Catherine had made a profound impact on me in the time I’d known her, and I wasn’t ready to let her go. I feel like I’ve lost a close friend.
It knocks the wind out of me a little, makes me feel a little like I might collapse. I haven’t felt like this about a patient in a long time. I should go home, but I find myself wandering around for a while, just walking through town in a blur. My eyes well up with tears more than once, and I blink them back, face red with the chilly December wind.
I head to the Dock’s End. Danny has asked me to stop by, and honestly, I don’t want to be alone right now. The restaurant has closed early tonight, and it’s mostly empty when I get there. I let myself in and find Danny in the back.
“Hey,” I call, looking around the kitchen where a few line cooks are throwing on their coats and getting ready to head out. I can’t help but picture the last time I was in this kitchen—picture Danny, remember what had happened, how it had felt. I shake my head, trying to clear it, even though the distraction from Catherine makes me feel a little better.
“Thanks for coming,” Danny says, rounding the corner and smiling at me. He tilts his head at me, studying me like my face is showing some of what I’m feeling.
“Of course,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Are you okay?” Danny asks, frowning at me. I wonder if I look bad if my eyes are red and puffy from the tears I’d cried for Catherine if my smiles don’t reach my eyes.
“Rough day at work,” I say, waving a hand. Danny frowns again and glances around at the last members of the kitchen staff, all on their way out.
“Have you eaten?” Danny asks. I shake my head.
“Not all day,” I admit. I’d spent my lunch break in Catherine’s room, saying prayers for her.
“Can I make you dinner?” Danny asks, gesturing around the kitchen and catching me off guard.
“Here?” I ask, startled. Danny nods.
“We’re closed, and it is my kitchen, after all. I’ll make whatever you want, and you can tell me about your rough day if you like,” Danny says. I think about saying no, about just figuring out what Danny wanted and heading home—but then I think about going home to my apartment, all alone with my thoughts and sadness, and it just sounds too overwhelming to bear.
“That actually sounds really nice,” I say, smiling a half smile. Danny puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, just for a minute, a warmth in the gesture that I can feel in my bones.
“Any requests?” he asks, pulling another tall stool up to the kitchen counters, right by his workspace. The kitchen is empty now, just us. I shake my head.
“Pasta?” I say, thinking that something comforting and creamy sounds amazing, like the carbohydrates might brighten my spirits. Danny laughs.
“I can absolutely do that,” he says. “All right, ma’am, and how would you like that order?”
“Surprise me,” I say, sitting on the stool and smiling at him. “Just as long as it’s extra creamy.”
“Ah, in the market for comfort food,” Danny asks, starting a pot of water on the stove.
“Like I said, it’s been a rough day,” I say.
“Work?” Danny inquires, gathering up ingredients from the pantry.
“A patient died today,” I say, “which I should be used to. I am used to it. I mean, I work at a hospice. That’s kind of the expected outcome, but I . . . ”
“You what?” Danny prompts, watching me. His eyes are wide and concerned, a gesture I wish didn’t make me fall for him a little more every time he does it.
“She was just a really wonderful lady, and I loved talking to her. I can usually get through this part of the job just fine, but this one feels like losing a friend,” I admit. Danny nods, spreading out vegetables and cheeses besides me, chopping.
“Then tell me about your friend,” Danny says. It’s so genuine and sincere that it takes my breath away. Danny keeps surprising me, keeps catching me off guard. Of all the things I would have said about Danny, all the things I thought about him, the fact that he is this warm and kind would never have crossed my mind. I had no idea he was like this.
It’s silly, but I wonder if maybe most people don’t know that about him. Like maybe Danny reserves these parts of himself for special times and special people. People he really cares about. I flush at the idea that I’m one of them and feel sort of overwhelmed about it, even though my grief.
“Didn’t you have something you wanted to tell me?” I ask. Danny shakes his head.
“It can wait. We’re closed until Tuesday morning for the pipe replacement. So we’ve got all night,” Danny says, smiling at me, a real and intimate smile that somehow makes me feel better. I nod and watch for a few minutes as he starts a sauce going and puts the pasta into the boiling water. He stays quiet like he’s giving me time to open up to him. It makes me want to tell him everything.
“Her name was Catherine,” I say, and Danny turns around to squeeze my knee quickly in en
couragement. I put my hand on top of his, holding his hand for a second, before continuing.
I keep thinking about what Catherine said, about people who make you happy, about letting good men get away. I hold Danny’s hand for just a second longer, not letting go yet.
Chapter Fourteen - Danny
Normally, I don’t like people talking while I’m cooking. Even during the rush, I prefer the tempo of music or the murmur of distant conversations from the dining room. Focusing on too much at once—my creations in the kitchen and the demands of someone else’s questions, someone else’s time—makes me feel like I’m splitting my attention too much and giving it to nothing, in the end. But amazingly, I don’t mind it at all when it’s Charlotte. Listening to her talk about the older woman who had made such an impact on her is actually the perfect complement to stirring up the sauce for her dinner, somehow. It feels like something I could get used to, and for a second I think about what it would it be like to have this all the time, in the kitchen at my apartment and not the one at the Dock’s End, or maybe even the kitchen of some little place we shared together.
I know it’s a dangerous train of thought, more so given that Charlotte has said she just wants my friendship, but I can’t help myself. I like having her around. When she’d shown up tonight, looking like her heart was broken, I’d wanted to fix it, to help her. I don’t remember ever feeling like that about anyone else, ever feeling so drawn to someone the way I am to Charlotte.
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